The baby poo eater of Ringworm - and the truth therein

Let me explain.

I know, I know.

The title of this thesis into actuality is dosed with serious grim.

But that's because the story IS grim!

It's completely disgusting, and whoever did it / came up with the idea / or relishes the near murderous and space time continuum splitting ways that occurred, should be barb wired to death behind a rollin' jalopy.

I got my quills. Oh yeah. They thought I was guilty. I wasn't.

You might want to know where the Hell in God's good Christian earth did I get such an abysmal title for this book?

And I shall tell you.

The truth.

But not as it might immediately appear.

Let's get one thing straight immediately.

I do NOT, and NEVER have eaten 'baby poo'.

I have never even intentionally sodomised a woman... Let alone a man.

I am a 'dope smoking sexual square in the holy field' (Yes, they do exist), and I am more chuckling occidental white Rastafarian, than kid fiddling weirdo from planet Satan.

These ARE the facts:

1. About seven years ago, with now being 2021, the police were summoned to my premises by my near 'Mother in Law'. They probed me on questions of child abuse, and, quite correctly, and notably to their good service of rectitude within a community, knew that I was completely innocent of such matters.

But it was because of something my daughter said in the bath...

Something I've got nothing to do, and do not understand, but have nearly been arrested, killed, ostracised, and humiliated over.

One comment.

From a child, in a bath... by causal proxy domino's, nearly got me killed three times...

For being not what I am.

Then the rumours spread, because of something Abi had said:

'Daddy stuck his finger up my bottom and ate my poo'.

I mean... WTF?!?!

That is what was reported as her saying... by the near mother in law who despised me for breaking her daughters heart.

Unintentionally.

I didn't mean to break Sarah's heart. I just had to for my own peace of mind and security, or I would forever face a life of perpetual misery, which, until probation and forced separation from the somewhat angry woman, I did.

Now I am alone.

Now, I am happier.

I'm not on ecstasy, or cocaine, or LSD, or speed, or magic mushrooms, or anything like I did for a year in 1995. I'm on God, and a bit of schmokum and a few beverati's...

Life, you could say, was good.

Until the false accusations... The false accusations I'd abused my child, over something I am utterly oblivious to.

I have shat myself for days at the horrific shape of my reality. Where I was being accused of gross wrong doing where no gross wrong doing had been done wrong.

And yet... And this is where the humour lies... After the years of my own daughters ostracising, age 3, for about two years, upon what she said; my near death three times by 'Battle with Chav gangs', shouting 'He's a paedophile!' at my 'WTF mind'... and my own family having to deal with this illusionary mockery of truth... That finally, age ten, the other day... The truth came out, within a new dimension of reality.

I have suffered for my non-sins.

Don't ever believe I haven't suffered... but what happened the other day was properly funny.

I hope this doesn't turn out to be a 'it was funny at the time' stories, but my God, the moment it happened, was truly ordained in personal mode of consciousness as absolutely priceless.

My beautiful, sweet, innocent daughter sat by the cupboard, lamenting why she was lonely for two years.

My beautiful girl... All alone in this world, apart from her loving parents, aged merely two.

It just fell out.

I told her the truth.

'It's because of something you said in the bath when you were a kid, bunion'.

'What did I say?' she moaned, through years too early to know such pain.

'I can't tell you'.

'Please, tell me', she whined. And that whine went through me again. The whine when I know my daughter really does need help from Daddy. When she's not the full chipper. When she's not skipping with hilarity through excitable times.

'I can't tell you bud, honestly, ask your Nan...'.

'No... You tell me,' she whinged again, and I knew a moment of pain was arising the likes of wish I'd never wish to know, and hardly dare brave attempt to face.

'Look... it... it's just... It's disgusting what you said...'.

'What did I say?!?!'

She's sitting on the floor looking miserable, back against the cupboard, legs splayed in her dark blue school uniform, head tucked into her shoulders. Hair weeping over memories of sadness and sorrow.

I didn't know what to do. A part of me wanted to tell her, but I dared not. I froze with legitimate fear, and prayed to God for a sign of escape.

But no escape was to come, but to have the fatherly wisdom and love to escape her from sufferance, and in her need for solutions, I felt the presence enough to just say 'Ah, Just tell her'.

'You said...'

'Yes?!'.

'Daddy stuck his finger up my bottom and ate my poo'.

It was at this point, having had my head kicked in three times over gross and indecent rumours of such activity, which, may I stress, certainly never occurred; my friends partially shun me, and my whole life in part ruined, over this, my little blonde bombshell went from sombre misery and woe, to absolutely head knocking back hilarity at Mach One...

She roared with laughter.

And, in the spirit of her happiness, and realisation of the bollocks of it all, I did too.

It was the truth... And I will never forget the way hilarity bloomed in her like a true winner of knowing truth, decency and honour. Knowing Daddy didn't do such a thing, and what a surprise to her unknown fears answered. Priceless.

The good things of existence.

I think my daughter is fabulous, and may you live in Ringworm among poo eaters if you ever seek to harm her.

Word.